Smell the Roses
by Silverblade1
Summary: It's just the way his life works that when Ed's finally got the time to pay a little more attention to those around him, he wishes he didn't.


Author's note: *There's a bit in the story where Ed's thought cuts off too soon. For some reason when I posted here, it wouldn't post all of it and I'm not sure why. It doesn't make that big a difference, but if anyone's interested in to see the rest, see the story on Archive of Our Own. Also, feedback is always welcome. :)

Summary: It's just the way his life works that when Ed's finally got the time to pay a little more attention to those around him, he wishes he didn't.

Smell the Roses

So, apparently, I'm fucking oblivious. At least that's what Al says. He says I don't pay enough attention to what's going on around me, and that I need to stop and smell the roses.

But who the fuck has time for that? Not me, especially back when I had Al's body to restore. It took me four long years, but I finally did it. And _damn_ did it feel good! Now Al's healthy, whole and laughing in front of my eyes. The homunculus are gone, and my time with the fucking military's nearly over. I still don't see the point of slowing down to smell the roses when I've got tons of shit to do, but tonight, why not?

So while Al's grabbing us more beers, I check out Mustang's crew in the crowded bar. These battle hardened men and women had each done their part to support me in my journey even with their own goals to fulfill. I absently rub at the tender spot in my chest and smile as I watch Breda, Havoc and Fuery alternately weep and swear as they dump money in front of Falman. Hawkeye and Rebecca Catalina sit a few rows down from them chatting with Maria Ross. I quickly turn away from Danny Brosh's pleading eyes as Major Armstrong has found some insane reason to lose his shirt again and strike a pose.

I eventually turn towards the table I've been trying not to watch (who am I kidding? more like trying not to get caught) all night where two of the best men I know sit. A small dagger pricks my heart at the sight of Hughes. He survived Envy's gunshot wound, but it was touch and go there for a while. I don't believe in God, but I'm not ashamed to admit I pleaded many nights for that man's life to whoever would listen.

And then there's Mustang. I chuckle at the sight of cool, suave Mustang laid low by one man with a handful of photos. And I mean literally. He slumps over the table with one lone arm stretched in front of him. He curves his left arm to hide his face from Hughes, but really he should know by now that what makes Hughes so effectively annoying is that he doesn't shut the hell up.

I grip the empty glass tighter as my eyes roam over Mustang. Ever since we defeated the homunculus, Mustang and I have managed something like friendship. Sure the man's a bastard, but at least he's a trustworthy one. Not to mention that long before Al started spouting that "smell the roses" bullshit I'd been torn between wanting to beat the Colonel's smug face in and doing...other stuff to it.

I laugh outright when Mustang starts to slowly and repeatedly bang his head against the table. Hell, the man had set my feet on the path to restoring Al's body. The least I could do is rescue him from Assault of the Hugheses' Family Photos Part Two. Just as soon as I move to stand, I pause.

Now I may be oblivious, but even I know Hughes and Mustang are close. So it doesn't bother me when Hughes reaches across the table to stop Mustang's self-abuse. And, I easily shrug it off when he ruffles Mustang's hair playfully. I expect it to stop there.

Except it doesn't. It feels like a glass bubble encloses us, muffling all background noise and zooming in on what's taking place in front of me. Hughes allows his fingers to linger in Mustang's hair with an ease born of familiarity. Mustang raises his head just enough to meet those searching green eyes. I expect Mustang to pull back, laugh it off, or shit, do _something_. He does none of those things, merely watches the other man with guarded eyes as if waiting...or holding himself back, I realize, stomach knotting queasily.

Hughes is looking at Mustang like he's the lov-like he never wants to let go of the man. Mustang's eyes slide shut as he _just_ leans into the touch and never has a man managed to make such a gesture look all at once like a surrender and a victory.

I close my eyes, open them again and like dust on the wind the moment's already passed. Hughes flashes another picture and Mustang's head falls against the table with an audible thunk. It takes a moment for me to realize I'm still staring at them like some dumb kid from some stupid high school drama. Some instinct for self preservation drags my eyes away from them. I grip the wooden table as too many thoughts fight for dominance.

_*Aretheytheywouldn' _-I shove the last of that pathetic thought to the back of my mind and focus on the rotted wooden table in front of me, trying to ignore the jagged and torn muscle that insists on beating in my chest still. One thought escapes but it's neutral enough that I hang onto it as I try to breathe normally again.

It's still banging around my head when Al sets two beers on the table. My face, well, I can't say what it looks like, but Al sees it and immediately asks what's wrong.

I swallow, shake my head and reach for the beer instead. My hand is actually _shaking_, dammit and Al's eyes widen with alarm.

"Brother, what is it?"

"It's nothing, Al it's just..." I take a calming breath, and will my hand to stop shaking. Al's still waiting anxiously.

"...I never did like roses."


End file.
